by Susan Fleet
A Pops musician, the headline had said, but she didn’t seem too comfortable in the spotlight. A young woman who’d just won twelve million bucks. Young being the key word. Maybe she’d be okay. If her luck held, maybe the Jackpot Killer would wait for an older winner.
____
Braintree
Gina lurked behind the mob of reporters in the Lottery Office, elated but anxious. Yesterday when she’d pitched her idea for a gambling series to her editor, he had okayed it. But interviewing a big winner was key. Now, after days of speculation, the Megabucks winner was here to claim her prize.
Victoria Stavropoulos. An interesting winner, a clarinetist with the Boston Pops. The instant she appeared, the reporters pressed forward, crowding around the stage. All of them wanted an interview, but Gina figured they didn’t have her chutzpah. Or determination.
Last year when her Spotlight Report on gangs won an award, her boss had given her a raise. If her gambling series increased circulation, she’d ask for a bigger one. Then she wouldn’t have to fend off Ryan’s constant sexual demands and worry about his violent temper. She could kiss Ryan goodbye.
She focused on the winner: twelve million bucks, eight million and change after they withheld taxes. Victoria was short, maybe five-four, and a bit plump, dressed in brown stretch pants and a loose-fitting gold top that set off her olive complexion and dark hair. Her face was gorgeous, a pert nose and huge dark eyes, reflecting her Greek heritage perhaps, gazing at the media mob from behind round-rimmed glasses.
The lottery officials handed her the huge photo-op check and dozens of flashbulbs went off. Victoria looked longingly at the door. Figuring she’d make a break for it, Gina went outside. Other reporters stampeded after her.
When Victoria pushed through the door, dozens of flashbulbs popped. If she’d kept walking, she might have escaped, but she hesitated, actually backed up, as though she might run back into the lottery office.
“Victoria!” someone shouted, “how does it feel to be a millionaire?”
“How do you plan to spend the money?”
“Are you going to quit your job with the Pops?”
As the questions bombarded her, a look of desperation spread over the woman's face.
Gina squirmed to the front of the crowd and yelled her name. “Vicky!”
When Vicky looked over, she yelled, “Gina Bevilaqua. We had an appointment, remember? My car’s over there.” Pointing to her red Mazda, parked in front of the Lottery Office entrance, nose out and ready to go.
Vicky’s eyes registered surprise, then hope, and wariness.
“I heard you play the Gershwin Rhapsody last week,” Gina said. “You’re better than Benny Goodman!”
The woman’s expression softened, but she didn’t smile.
Gina extended her hand. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Clearly upset, Vicky stared at the microphones and cameras. Ignoring jibes from fellow reporters, Gina grabbed her hand and pulled her through the crowd, Vicky running to keep up as the reporters scurried after them.
When they reached her Mazda, she opened the driver’s door and pushed Vicky inside. Vicky slid over and Gina jumped behind the wheel. Intent on escaping, she cranked the engine, zoomed to the exit and paused at a stop sign, eyeing the rearview to see if any cars were on her tail. Not yet.
She turned left and accelerated. A block later she stopped at a red light. The intersection was clear so she banged a right and kept going.
“I think we lost them,” she said.
“That’s a relief.”
“I’m Gina Bevilaqua, in case you didn’t get the name.”
“I know. I read all your columns. I’m Vicky Stavropoulos.” She looked at Gina, her dark eyes solemn. “But I guess you know that already. Sorry. I’m not used to this.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be last week’s news in no time.”
“I hope so,” Vicky said in a soft voice, clenching her hands in her lap.
“Want a drink? I know a quiet little place where nobody will bother us.”
“What about my car? It’s parked at the Lottery Office.”
“No worries. I’ll drive you back here when we finish. By then, everyone will be gone.”
Vicky heaved a sigh and looked over, her expression guarded. “Okay. A drink might be good.”
Not exactly a ringing endorsement. Good grief, the woman had just collected a check worth millions. Didn’t she want to celebrate? Gina decided not to mention it yet. She made small talk about the weather and the Red Sox until they arrived at Mama Leona’s, her usual choice when she needed a secluded spot to talk to a reluctant interviewee or have a drink with Franco.
Gina asked for a booth in the back. The small square dining room had no windows. Stubby candles in glass globes flickered on each table, giving off a dim glow. Few were occupied at this hour, and no one paid any attention as they followed the hostess past vacant booths with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths. They settled into the booth in the back corner near the restrooms.
“The food is great here,” Gina said. “You like Italian?”
Vicky took a pack of Winstons out of her purse and set it on the table. “I’m not hungry. Just a drink is fine.”
“Okay. Sure you don’t want an appetizer? The fried eggplant sticks are fantastic. I’ll buy.”
Vicky’s lips curled in a faint smile, hinting at how beautiful she’d look if she were relaxed and happy. “No, thanks. I should buy you a drink. I guess I can afford it.”
That broke the ice. They chatted about the temptations of Greek and Italian food—delicious but calorie-laden—until a stocky waitress in slacks and a white blouse came over. “Hi, Gina, how’s it going?”
“Great, Donna. How about you?”
“SOS. Same old songs.” Donna thumbed her order pad. “You folks ready to order?”
“I’d like a strawberry daiquiri,” Vicky said.
“Make that two,” Gina said, inwardly groaning. She hated sweet drinks, but hey, this was girlfriend bonding time. Drink whatever your new best-friend-lottery-winner orders.
Donna nodded. “Be right back with your drinks.”
Vicky fired up a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke, glancing around as though she feared a mob of reporters might walk in the door any minute.
“Doesn’t that hurt your wind?” Gina said.
Vicky shrugged. “I don’t inhale.”
“Like Clinton.”
“Yeah, right,” Vicky said, and they both laughed.
Donna arrived with their strawberry daiquiris, tall curved glasses with bendable straws and big red strawberry halves impaled on the rim. Vicky took two big gulps. It seemed to relax her.
“That article you did on autistic children was great,” Vicky said.
“Thanks. It won an award. Now I’m doing a series on gambling, and you’re my big winner.”
Vicky shrank back, staring at her, a stricken look on her face.
“Vicky, I’m not taking notes and I’m not wearing a wire.” She grinned and opened her suit jacket. “See? No wires, no tape recorder. Anything you say right now is off the record.”
“You won’t write about what I say?”
“Not unless you tell me I can. Fair enough?”
Vicky sucked up more daiquiri. “Okay, I guess.”
“How’d you happen to buy the Megabucks ticket?”
She fiddled with her cigarette, tapping it in the ashtray. “Just, uh, you know, spur of the moment.”
“Just bopped down to that store in the North End and bought it, huh?”
“Well, I live near there.”
Gina nodded. She’d already located Vicky’s address. Her phone number wasn’t listed, but Gina could get it easily enough. To play in the Boston Pops you had to belong to the Boston Musicians Union, and she knew a few musicians who could get her Vicky’s number.
“Ever play the lottery before?”
“Now and then. I only bought one ticket.”
&
nbsp; “Pretty lucky, buy one ticket and hit the jackpot. You know what the odds are on that happening?” Vicky shook her head, and Gina grinned. “Neither do I, but trust me, they’re astronomical. Your folks must be excited. Do they live around here?”
“No. In Cleveland.”
She waited, but Vicky remained silent, fiddling with her napkin. She tried to think of something to loosen her up. Well, duh, how about music?
“I saw a great article about the British guy that conducted Pops last week. What’s his name, Nigel Heath?”
Vicky’s eyes widened. She moved her hand to flick ash off her cigarette and bumped her daiquiri. The glass tipped, and a strawberry-red puddle overspread the red-and-white checked tablecloth. Vicky pulled paper napkins out of a metal container and mopped at the liquid.
Why the panicky reaction, Gina wondered. “What do you think of him? As a conductor, I mean.”
Vicky fussed with the soggy napkin. Her face had a strained look about it. “Well, he’s, um, a really good musician. I hope he gets the Pops job.” She frowned. “But don’t quote me.”
“Why not? You’re entitled to your opinion.”
“I have to use the ladies room.” Vicky grabbed her purse and left.
Left Gina thinking: What’s up with Nigel and Vicky, a hot romance?
That would light up the wow-meter.
A minute later Vicky emerged from the restrooms, her face pale as she slid into the booth. “Gina, I’m not feeling well. Would you mind taking me back to my car so I can go home?”
Damn, she shouldn’t have asked about the conductor. She had a knack for reading people, or so she’d been told. Vicky’s panicky reaction to Nigel Heath’s name was way over the top, and she intended to find out why.
But not tonight apparently. Which meant she had to convince Vicky to talk to her again.
“No problem,” Gina said, and signaled Donna for the check.
“Let me get it,” Vicky said.
But Gina already had her wallet out. She paid cash and they left.
When they got in the car, Vicky slumped in her seat, hands clenched in her lap, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry. I appreciate you getting me away from that mob and all, but this is just so . . . overwhelming.”
“No problem, Vicky. I understand. But I’d really like to interview you for my series. You know, get your reaction to the big win and how you might spend the money. How about it?”
But Vicky said nothing, arms clenched against her chest.
“It would make a great story. Star clarinet player gets lucky and her career takes off. We could talk about music, where you went to school, your experiences playing with the Pops.”
Vicky remained silent, staring out the windshield.
“Okay, how about if I call you tomorrow when you’re feeling better?”
“No, not tomorrow,” Vicky said. “Next week maybe.”
“Promise?”
Vicky nodded. “Next week will be much better.”
CHAPTER 14
Friday, May 12 — Plymouth, MA
He slipped into the Nationwide Cable Company office and shut the door. The sun was coming up, but the blinds were closed and the office was dark. Quiet. The office didn’t open until eight, plenty of time to get the information he needed and get out.
Finally, his lucky winner had claimed her prize. He’d seen her do it on TV last night. His mother had insisted that he watch the news with her. For once in his life he was glad.
Now all he had to do was get her address and telephone number.
Simple. If she had cable. He scratched his thumb.
If she didn’t have cable, he had a problem. But he’d soon find out.
He dialed an 800 number. It rang six times before someone picked up.
“Hi,” he said, “this is John from central billing? I need an address and phone number on a Boston customer. Our computer files are messed up.”
The woman didn’t hassle him, just asked for the customer’s name in a bored voice.
“Victoria Stavropoulos,” he said, and spelled it so there’d be no mistake.
A faint sound startled him. His heart jolted.
Had one of the clerks come in early?
His eyes darted to the door.
No. It must have been the air conditioner whirring cool air around the room. Even so his uniform shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat.
He clenched the phone, willing the woman to hurry. Seconds later she spoke in his ear. He wrote down the information and hung up.
Fantastic. Victoria had cable.
Now he had a name for his new girl and her name was perfect.
Victoria. Victory.
____
Las Vegas — 3:30 p.m.
Nigel left the men’s room and went around the corner to a line of ten phone boxes. Men stood at two of them. Seeking privacy, he took the one at the far end. He pulled a handful of change from his pocket, dropped in some coins and dialed. As the phone buzzed in his ear, he glanced down the hall. The early show was over, and people had returned to the gaming room, pulling slots or hovering over roulette wheels or blackjack tables.
Oddly, he felt no desire to join them. Why should he? He’d bought two hundred lottery tickets and hit the jackpot. He’d never need to gamble again.
Vicky’s phone message came on. He waited for the beep and said, “Hi luv, are you there? It’s Nigel.”
She picked up immediately. “Nigel!”
“How’re you keeping?”
“Awful! You wouldn’t believe the reporters outside Symphony Hall after yesterday’s rehearsal!” Her voice rose in a plaintive wail. “I had to ask an oboe player to drive me home. Not only that, my phone’s ringing off the hook, and the phone company can’t get me an unlisted number till next week!”
“Hang in there, luv, I’ll be back on Monday. Did you decide about the wedding?”
“Bermuda might be nice. Sunny and warm and no reporters!”
“Superb!” he said, enjoying her enthusiasm. God, he loved this woman. He couldn’t wait to see her.
“We’ll invite my family and a few friends.”
“Whatever you say, Vicky. We’ll set the date when I get back.”
“I wish you were here right now.”
“Me too, but I’ll be back Monday morning. Only a couple of days.”
“I’m counting the hours.” A pause. “No slot machines, right?”
“Not a one! No more gambling for me, Vicky. I’m the luckiest man alive. Can’t wait to see you.”
Please deposit sixty-five cents or your call will be terminated, said a mechanical voice.
Vicky giggled. “How romantic.”
“Blast! I’m out of coins. Forgot my mobile in the room. Call you tonight. Keep well, Vicky. I love you.”
“Love you, too. See you Monday.”
His spirits soared. Soon he’d be back in Boston. He’d already made an appointment with a financial planner. Earlier he’d talked to Hale, but he hadn’t mentioned the lottery prize. Plenty of time for that after he and Vicky worked out the financial agreement and set a wedding date. No worries about money. They’d have a bang-up wedding in Bermuda.
Warm and wonderful. Just like Vicky.
Hale had said the BSO managers still hadn’t chosen the next Pops conductor. A week ago that would have put him in a funk, but now it seemed unimportant. He wanted the job, sure, but even if he didn’t get it, he and Vicky would be together, and his money problems would be over.
____
Swampscott, MA — 7:30 p.m.
“Rough week, Franco?”
He flexed his shoulders to ease the tension. “A long week, for sure. Any kind of luck, I won’t get called to work a double homicide over the weekend.”
Gina looked stunning tonight, a burgundy velour top accentuating her curves. If they were at her beach house, he’d jump her and lose himself in sensual oblivion. But they were miles away, in an out-of-the-way lounge north of Boston. Because he was paranoid and didn�
�t want anyone to see them.
He touched her forearm, caressing her skin. “How about you?”
“You look tired. Have you figured out where you’re going to live?”
“Not yet. Not until I see how things shake out.”
He still didn’t think Evelyn would go through with the divorce. Let her stay in the house alone a few nights, she’d have one of her panic attacks, change her mind and tell him to come home.
“I might be moving too,” Gina said.
That grabbed him by the short hairs. Man, he couldn’t take many more surprises. “Where to? California?”
Her eyes widened. “Are you crazy? Why would I move to California?”
“I don’t know. I figured maybe you got a job at the LA Times.”
“Yeah, and you’re gonna join the LAPD.”
“So? Where are you going?”
“I need to get away from Ryan for a while. My beach house, maybe.”
He studied her expression as she fished cashews out of a dish of mixed nuts on the bar. Gina could put on a poker face when she wanted to. No revelations there.
“Why?”
“I’ve got my reasons.”
He drank some beer, thinking What reasons? Thinking about Janine, his previous lover, and their painful breakup.
Gina munched the cashews, drank some wine and said, “I’m sick of doing his laundry and cooking for him all weekend while he goes golfing with his buddies. I work all week, too.” She gave him a look. “And I can only fake so many migraines, you know? Gee honey, I’ve got a headache.”
Trust Gina to come up with a droll bon mot. He never asked about what she and her husband did on weekends. Truth be told, he didn’t want to know, didn’t want to think about it.
“If Ryan finds out about you and me, he’ll be furious,” she said.
“Damn. How did everything get so complicated?”
“I don’t know. Smooth sailing for nine years and then that woman sees us in the bar. I don’t want to be around if Ryan finds out about it.”
His detective-antenna went up, getting bad vibes now. “Why? Would he hurt you?” He couldn’t stand men who beat on women. It made him sick.
